


The List

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), BDSM, Bondage, Consensual dub-con roleplay, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Exhibitionism, Gender or Sex Swap, Historical Roleplay, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Otk spanking, Pegging, Predicament Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Serpentine features, Sexual Roleplay, Sounding, pain play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:10:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22717303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Aziraphale has a List of things he would like to do.Crowley is less organised. But just as eager.(Various kinks and scenarios from prompts, chapters will have Content Warnings listed to help skip/avoid anything you dislike. No kink-shaming here, but it may be YKINMKBYKIO at times.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 100
Kudos: 204





	1. Omnibus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Exhibitionism, semi-public sex.

It wasn’t as if their private life hadn’t been very, very satisfying and fulfilling. Crowley had zero complaints, except for the part where they hadn’t tried it sooner. Really. Once the weirdness about clothing and a lack thereof, and the self-consciousness about protocol faded… or, more properly, the first time he’d kicked a leg that cramped up from contorting so much, and knocked over the bedside table… to realise the angel had literally just had his tongue up his ass and had him screaming…

After you did that with someone, after you let your body be pushed, and pulled, and licked and sucked. After you wrapped into origami eldritch gods and ended up sweaty and delirious and promising the whole universe if they _just keep going right there please oh fuck yes--_

You couldn’t ever have any boundaries left, then. Or Crowley couldn’t. 

Sure, there were still things he hadn’t told him: he hadn’t gone into every minutia of his days when they’d been apart, but there wasn’t any skeleton any bigger than the dancing army he already knew about. But it wasn’t a withhold-from-shame thing. 

But he’d - well - he’d thought they’d plumbed pretty much the depths of their shared depravity, or the levels to which it would be acceptable. The idle other fantasies or what-ifs were just how the mind worked. It saw an alley it didn’t want to go down, per se, but it imagined the whole journey and what would be on the other side. Imagination. It went places. 

It didn’t mean he… you know. Was upset that some of those ideas weren’t happening. Maybe he wouldn’t even actually really _want_ some of them, but he thought about them.

So when Aziraphale asked, po-faced, over a sweat-and-struggle mussed bedsheet, if Crowley had ever had any… ‘unusual’ ideas, or desires…?

What the Hell counted as unusual? For him, a demon, the part where the boning was part of a (ahem) loving, committed, mutual relationship… yeah. The bump and grind and growl and bend was supposed to be carnal and whatnot. Actually having feelings, and taking the angel’s own into account… that was all sorts of depraved.

But he couldn’t say that, because: 

1\. The angel would likely take it wrong and be upset or insulted, rather than hear the ‘yes I love you a lot and your happiness is important to me and this is so much more than scratching an itch’ he would hear ‘we’re different and this is wrong’. 

2\. He hated saying how he felt. Hated it. It always made him feel like he’d swallowed a cactus and tried to wash it out with compost. It was much easier to say it in ways that avoided the actual, head-on words. And so he’d make Aziraphale miserable and himself in one fell swoop.

3\. The thoroughly debauched look on that perfect face? The very slight wrinkle of his nose? The inside of his wrist as he balanced his chin on his palm, and wriggled his toes behind and above him? The thought that anything he might ask for… might happen?

_Uh. I’ll have to think about it._

About which ones he could admit to, that was. 

_Oh._

_You could tell me… yours?_

The torrent that came out in response was a tsunami of longing and hunger and was a bizarre mixture of things he must have either collated and repressed, or had suddenly been able to invent. Several were aesthetic (outfits, hairstyles, locations); others were more physical (acts he hadn’t even heard of and was going to need to research alone so as to not admit his ignorance); a fair few were psychological (roles, imagined scenarios, the mood and dynamic) and then some were literally just… well. Kinky. 

Which made Crowley’s cock stir despite itself. It had already been valiantly vigorous multiple times, but hearing this uncensored list of sexual desires, from spooning to what sounded like spelunking, by way of roses and ropes, taking in poems and pain on the way? It wasn’t so much the acts as the fact that his angel had spent so much time and effort considering this… considering _him_... his head swam from the attention, and he’d been ready to lift his ass and offer to start at the beginning of the alphabet and do them all right then and there. 

Instead, he’d managed to nod and croak out a: “That all sounds manageable.” (Read: I won’t walk by the end of it but I’ll damn sure be flying.) 

And so what started out as a ‘does he even have the bits’ turned into ‘he wants to do WHAT WITH THEM, NOW?’ and Crowley wondered if there was even much left on the Complete Sex Check List that he could even ask for, that Aziraphale already hadn’t. 

No good deed goes unpunished. And Crowley intended to keep doing them so he would get more.

***

There wasn’t any need for a bus. His car was fine. They weren’t trying to duck potential surveillance. It wasn’t somewhere there literally wasn’t any parking… it was a bloody picnic. People regularly travelled by car to them, and even if he had packed alcohol, Crowley was as dangerous sober as he was drunk. 

But the angel insisted. With a pout. And a widening of his eyes. And a small fall of his shoulders. 

_But it would be lovely to watch the scenery with you._

_You can watch from the car._

_Not at the speeds you go. And I want to have your attention._

_You **have** it._

But he’d been set on it, and so Crowley had (like usual) conceded. 

They’d paid (somehow) and Aziraphale hadn’t taken the usual middle-of-the-carriage seats.

Oh no.

He’d gone straight for the spiral staircase up to the top deck. Which did lend some weight to the scenery watching. 

And up and then straight to the empty front seats, where they could look through the scratched and smeared glass at the world below. 

Not that he’d see anything new. Maybe a DVD sitting on a bus stand roof. Or possibly some potholes in advance. If you wanted an interesting view, you sat and people-watched in a park, a pub, a restaurant. An airport. A service station. People were the most varied and interesting things to watch. You went up a tall urban building, or you went into the unspoiled wild, far from A-Road or B-Road or anything resembling a road at all. 

Buses went a bit too fast to watch, and Crowley prefered to be the one driving if he had to be on the road. 

Still. Compromise.

A warm thigh against his, pressed together by the too-narrow bench seating. Tacky upholstery, in every meaning of the word. A print designed to obscure any sins, and outlive toddlers, teenagers, and - damn it - tremulously toddering truculent pensioners. Drunks, and those without licences because of it. Youths, young mothers, old veterans… the great leveller, public transport. 

He could feel the soft leather of Aziraphale’s shoe stroke against his own, and the hand on the rail went out of sight.

Crowley was about to ask what sights in particular the angel wanted to admire, when he felt the hand settle on his thigh. Which was normal enough. The angel would regularly touch him there, which was maddening and marvellous in equal measure. Enough to remind and kindle, but nothing more. A tease.

This was more than a tease, though. The fingers walked a spider-wobble up his inner thigh, and Crowley felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

Were they alone? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t really looked at the back of the bus, and - oh shit - the mirror that should give him a full view of the bus was (of course) broken. 

“...angel?”

“Isn’t it a lovely day, my dear one? Such a beautiful sky.”

Are you aware you are fondling my balls through the fabric? It seemed like such a ridiculous question to ask, but - uh - talking about doing things in public was one thing, but actually placing his hand between his thighs and following over the lines and curves?

If there was anyone, they would see. See from the way Crowley went stock still, hunched and tense, and the angle of the angel’s shoulder and the flexing of his muscles below his jacket. They’d know he was feeling his fellow traveller up. Know…

His thumb. Oh, stars, his thumb! It found that space between his balls, and just below his now-interested dick. (Stupid piece of flesh.) It pressed in, until Crowley couldn’t hold the whimper back, and then fingers cupped his sac and started to firmly knead.

The demon’s hands went white on the silver bar, and he frantically looked at the window as they trundled on, trying to spot a reflection of a fellow passenger to be find a reason to call this off. 

He wouldn’t, would he? If people were there. If someone came up the steps… he wouldn’t?

Right?

Or would he direct their eyes away? Make them fail to notice the older couple acting like teens at the front? (Shouldn’t they be at the back to do that? Unless the whole thing was planned to keep him on his toes…)

The fact he could check for himself if they were, or were not alone… completely escaped him. It just didn’t occur. At all. Why would it? The angel wanted…

OH SWEET BABY JEANS. AND SHOES. AND JACKETS. AND.

His fingernails - kempt and perfect - made such a terrifically loud sound as they scraped up against the woven fabric of his own jeans, and started to manipulate just below where his cock was now tenting the denim, hard. Rubbing and pinching and fuck, but Crowley was shaking and holding onto the barrier and he couldn’t have told you if the bus was on fucking _Mars_ because he was sure he was leaking enough precum to darken already black jeans into void colours. 

There was no way to deny he was getting off on this. No way at all, and when he looked sideways at the angel, he was calmly looking out at the world passing by. As if he wasn’t manhandling his demon’s bits. In public. Where anyone could walk in on them. His face a calm picture of peace and serenity and that _twinkle_ in his eyes that said otherwise. 

Oh, oh yes. Crowley loved that bastard so damned much. Save the world then give a handjob on the Number 47. Smile out at the little old ladies and children in prams as they wobbled past, as if he wasn’t trying to get Crowley to make a mess of himself. 

But it was - why? Buses were dirty and well-used. Hardly pristine and sanitary and high-class. As much as the angel insisted he was there for the people, he really didn’t like to mingle too far down. He’d never share a bag of chips with a drunk girl and hold her hair back for her. He’d never watch the unspoken hierarchy of needs between the wheelchair user and the mother with the pram jostling to fit in the one space that wasn’t big enough for either of them. He wouldn’t really be found here… but Crowley wouldn’t often, either.

Was that the point?

Or was it… was it that this was one of their old liminal places?

Busy but inconspicuous, like their bench. Full of transitory meetings, away from the worlds they were supposed to belong to. Clandestine arrangements, where they’d come close to breaking through. Maybe that was---

“A----angel, if you d-do tttthhhhhhattttt…”

Blue eyes met his, wild and a little angry. But good angry. Hungry angry. Possessive, almost. Longing. I know, they said. I know. I want this. But his hand stilled, with the zip half-way down. A silent question, checking he’d still want this.

He remembered agreeing in principle, though they hadn’t talked full specifics. Crowley didn’t really want randoms seeing him… uhm… vulnerable. (Because he was, with his angel. Oh, he could shatter so badly.) Sex was sex, but this was more, and also he wanted it just for him. Wanted the angel just for him. Anyone actually watching made him a little uneasy, but the thrill of possibility…

“Our stop is soon. Unless you wish to get off?”

BASTARD with his double entendre! How did Crowley answer that? He didn’t want to disembark, but he did want to come, and he also wanted to bite those lips and see if the angel would lower himself (literally and metaphorically) to his knees, between empty crisp packets and the wads of gum and dead cigarettes… lower himself and swallow him and… maybe at night. In the dark. In a bus-shelter. Maybe they’d push down pants just enough, and bugger like rabid animals in the sodium glow from the streetlights. 

Maybe they’d run to the bathroom in the Ritz. Close a stall. Close the deal. Squirt one out before dessert. Some extra cream. 

Fffffuck. 

The fingers flipped the metal tongue of the zip up and down, without pulling the teeth in any direction. Crowley felt his knees part, his head nod. 

Yes. Yes. Please.

Czzzzdjink. 

Air that felt cold, a palm that did not. How many Humans had done this? Fondled and fornicated on this seat? How many of them were in love, and how many just wanted to spurt out and be done with it?

How many were utterly in love? Real love, not just pheromonal infatuation? How many would look into their lover’s eyes and see such gratitude and hunger, such promise of devotion unwavering? Aziraphale was jerking him off and somehow _he_ was grateful? Adoring, doting, and - ohhh ffffaaauuuuuu--

His hand was firm, sharp, neat. The strokes calculated to bring the demon’s body to ecstatic release in the most efficient and cruel way, his hips twitching and his teeth sinking into his lips until all but bloody from holding in the cry. SO. SO. SO GOOD.

So.

Oh…

He watched as a handkerchief was flourished with the other hand, and used to wipe his throbbing cock clean before tucking it back in. The zip was nearly painful as it resealed him away, and then the angel dabbed his hand clean of the spend, other than one blob on his thumb which he licked away with a dainty tongue. 

Shit. Shit, but that was hot. Hotter than it should be. And Aziraphale looked so radiant and glorious, where Crowley felt like he was a dishcloth wrung out at his feet. The angel hadn’t even found his own ending yet, and they were due to disembark any minute.

Crowley swayed, the engine vibrations chasing the aftershocks through his slender frame. Dragging out the waves of bliss, lulling him into utterly blissed after-glow. 

“Angel… aren’t you…?”

“Oh, we have _all day_ , my beloved. I had thought perhaps at our picnic, or on the return journey?”

Crowley moaned, not caring who heard. “Tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”

Aziraphale merely smiled. “I already have all I need. But, if you insist…”


	2. Sssexy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Sounding, serpentine features.

Crowley had been very occupied with something that had, at the time, seemed important. Whatever it was disappeared when warm arms wrapped around his waist from behind and a soft, smooth cheek rubbed against his own. 

Aziraphale, when solicitous, was a most beautiful - and even more important than anything else - thing. 

“Someone’s feeling friendly,” he commented, as he enjoyed the attention, and was rewarded with a pecking kiss.

“Oh, do that again!”

“Huh?”

“The thing with your tongue.”

Self-conscious suddenly, he felt at his teeth and realised in his distracted state, he’d let it slip to the more serpentine, bifurcated appearance. It was something he tried his best to curtail, and he squirmed in his seat. “Angel, leave it off.”

But Aziraphale pushed his nose and lips to the downturned corner of Crowley’s mouth, and begged for kisses with a tiny whine. “But Crowley, I love _every_ part of you…”

This was said at the same time as hands tried to tug his shirt loose enough to glide across his belly, and damn but his tongue flicked out again anyway. 

“Angel,” he whined, as his head was turned and kisses were demanded even more.

The lips pushed against his plied him and plucked, and then he was helpless to resist. His own parted, and he dragged the thin split against his angel’s lips, and felt the moan and shudder as it delved deeper into the kiss. It felt different, dryer, and more… sharp. Which was silly, but it did do things to his pants that meant he must like it, too.

“Oh, you are simply _scrumptious_ ,” Aziraphale purred, the vibrations in his chest travelling down the demon’s spine. 

“You would think that,” he argued, as he received a lap full of Principality and arms around his neck as he demanded yet more.

Crowley decided he could indulge him. And indulge him. And…

Half of eternity later, punch-drunk and aware of the grinding butt pushing into his lap, Crowley pushed his nose behind an ear.

“Uh. We - I --”

“ _Yes_. Whatever you are thinking: yes.”

Okay. Strike while the iron is hot, and all.

Crowley girded himself, and flipped around until Aziraphale was the one sitting in the stuffy armchair. And then sank to his knees between the angel’s parted ones, gazing up with a final question on his face.

A warm, sure hand caressed his cheek and carefully urged him forwards, and he knew it was okay.

Crowley liked to do this. He liked to do anything, if it made the angel happy, blast him. But he especially liked this, because it was so very intimate and trusting. Because he could pay careful attention to the reactions and the tensing and bunching of muscles. He could dedicate his whole focus to something so precious as Aziraphale’s happiness, and he felt… he felt… good. No, not good. But… loving. And powerful. He could do this, could control and deliver such satisfaction… and then he could feel the proof of it in his mouth and throat. 

Crowley liked to give head.

On his knees, he ran his palms over the soft, indulgent fabric of his lover’s trousers, and rubbed his cheek into one plump thigh. He was rewarded by fingers scrunching through his short hair, massaging his scalp, and murmuring words of encouragement and gratitude. 

Aziraphale liked to be pampered. Of course.

It was important to start slow, if you wanted to last. To nuzzle and drink in the scent of his rising interest, and to stimulate the whole area with his palms and nails. To feel for him through the barriers, before stripping them away and leaving the flesh to bounce free and alert and eager.

Nice, pink cock. Firm, silky, and delicious. 

Crowley took a moment to admire it, first, before he ran his tongue from sac to tip.

Interesting. The fork meant he could envelop him in a different way. Thinner, less full and wet, but more precise. He worked his jaw to add more saliva, then wriggled his tongue like he was tasting the air like the serpent he was. 

Rich, angelic, musky and hungry. Aziraphale squirmed in his chair, hands gripping the armrests in a way that says yes, oh yes, he was into this. 

Eyes closing, he began to apply those light tickles up and down, then wrap a coil to tug, then back to lighter contact. It was much more delicate and precise, and he couldn’t push as hard as he normally would on the spots he needed the pressure. Crowley didn’t want to just close his mouth and suckle him off, not when…

He ran the tip curiously around the little white bead, tasting it daintily, and then looked up with another question.

Aziraphale had an arm flung over his eyes, his jaw clenched and his belly tensed. He was most definitely enjoying himself, but he wasn’t… he wasn’t there, not yet, and…

Crowley kept his eyes up as he probed the slit with the tip of his tongue. It got him moans of bliss, and a rut of hips. 

So he put his hands on those hips, and pushed harder. And harder. He pushed an ungodly wail of bliss past the angel’s lips as his own graced the cockhead, and his tongue found itself buried… well. Deep, deep into Aziraphale’s narrow urethra. 

He hadn’t exactly planned it, but… oh, was it ever delicious. He tasted even stronger, here. It was only used for one function, and Crowley knew that every drop the angel had pushed out from his balls had been for him. This. This place, more than any other, was his, and only his. 

Frantic hands grasped his hair, his ears, as Aziraphale panted and fought his hold on his hips. His thighs knotted, his balls pulled tight and heavy. Crowley grinned and used his lips on the crown, as he did his best to wiggle and caress his lover’s cock from the inside out. 

“Oh - oh you _w-wicked_ thing, you - oh YES, Crowley, YES!”

He could feel the tension, the twitching of fine muscles and the way Aziraphale wanted to rut. But he couldn’t go any deeper into his mouth, not with Crowley’s tongue stuck inside of him. The demon moved his hands to massage the space between balls and hole, and pinch the base of his shaft, as he tried to apply pressure where it normally would never be. It was so gloriously intense, and his angel was now babbling in tongues and begging for release. 

Release that seemed to mount, behind the dam of his tongue. Mount and threaten to expel him, to force him back so he could spurt out his seed. He started to hum in appreciation, but then it was clearly too much because Aziraphale was whining and keening, fighting him and begging for release. It welled up against his tongue, that salty gift he wanted so very, very much. Pushing and pressing and Crowley kneaded his balls in one hand as he pulled back. 

Pulled back, through that tensing channel, and was rewarded by a hot, rough spurt that went on for far too long and not long enough. He suckled, swallowed, licked and slurped the result, and then held the limp shaft with both hands as he sat back to grin, victoriously.

“Mnnnnn,” Aziraphale said, intelligently.

Crowley licked his lips, and put his head on the angel’s thigh to watch the afterglow spread and bloom. “Ssssso… you think I’m sssexy?”

“In _every_ incarnation,” Aziraphale agreed, then gestured for him to climb back up. 

Crowley slithered into his lap, and licked the taste of him across his lips. “Good.” He would have to do that again.


	3. Jewelled Claims

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Nipple play, minor pain play

“I do only have the two, if you were wondering.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale lifted his eyes, blinking owlishly at the demon lying like molten, late afternoon sunshine over the sheets. 

“Nipples.”

“Oh?”

“Thought you might have been listening to that Witch Hunter again. But I do. Only have two.”

“I should be surprised to find otherwise,” Aziraphale responded, and realised he’d been rather… attentive. 

They’d had a rather lovely post-lunch break, one that had left him feeling very warm and snuggly. Crowley had his hands under the pillow beneath his head, and had spread to cover what little his lithe body could, while Aziraphale cleaved to his side and ran his fingers over his lover’s sweat-damp skin. 

He’d been playing with the closest nipple rather extensively, he realised, and it was now very, very, _very_ pert.

“Well. Just making sure you weren’t - you know - checking.”

“Is it… unpleasant?” he asked, drawing a nail over the slightly nobbly surface.

“Mmmm…. No. S’nice. Nicer, I think, when they’re bigger. I mean--”

He meant, when he was a she. But right now, he wasn’t. “But still enjoyable?”

“Undoubtedly, undeniably so.”

Crowley’s spine rippled as Aziraphale’s fingers and thumb pushed together, then tugged a steady pressure up away from the mattress. The tender skin stretched, pale and bright in a tantalising mix, and then he almost expected a _prang_ on the release.

“You… can… do more. If you like.” It was a magnanimous statement, with forced airiness over an underlying hunger. 

Ah yes. Crowley rarely (if ever) asked for what he wanted, head on. Which meant he liked this a _lot_. 

“More?” Aziraphale liked to make him ask for what he wanted. It was more fun that way.

The demon’s eyes slitted open, flecks of gold beneath soft lashes. “Mmm. If you like.”

“More meaning…?”

“You know what I--- ahhhhh… yesssss…”

He looked up from the glistening spot he’d licked, pulled and twisted into position, and then swiped kitten-neat licks back over the same place, enjoying the shifting and rustling he got in response. 

“Just that?” Aziraphale was perfectly content to lick and slick and tweak for hours. Hours were nothing, not really. He was already completely sated, though he could go for more if he wanted to. 

Crowley frowned, his voice making a garbled little show of protest, even as the angel reached over to repeat the steps with the other side. Couldn’t leave it wanting, after all.

“If you… want…”

So. He needed encouraging. Aziraphale pulled back to just breathe warm gusts over the swollen nub, and hummed in bastardly determination. “Whatever you wish, my dear heart.”

A little flick. A little lick. A tiny, daring suck. 

On, and on, and on. Crowley was tenting the sheets that fell like snow-drifts over his hips, writhing for friction that Egyptian cotton couldn’t really provide. The flush wandered from his cheeks and collarbones, over the front of his ribcage, around the two, tormented nipples. His hands had found the headboard, under the pillow, and his hair was plastering to his face from the sheen of sweat. 

Aziraphale loved to render him so… unkempt. Crowley was always so decidedly precious about his appearance that seeing him so roused and rowdy meant he was truly letting go. No filters, no layers of protective wear… not far off loosening his tongue…

“H-harder,” he whimpered, as one ankle drew up towards his ass, his knees splaying automatically, offering and asking in one. “P-please, angel…”

Perfectly manicured nails flicked out at one, and he relished the cry of frustrated need. 

“Like that?”

“ _Harder_.”

Crowley liked… pain. Or, sensation bordering on it. Was it still pain if it was pleasurable? Aziraphale wasn’t wholly sure. 

At first, he’d been a little startled. After all, pain was ‘supposed’ to be bad, and he hadn’t wanted actual bad. A little playful teasing or role-play, perhaps, maybe some mild spanking… but then he’d pulled hair and - in extremis - scratched and bitten a few times, and found the lovemaking turned even more intense. 

Which had been what gave him the ideas in the first place. (Okay, maybe not ‘gave’, but gave him the confidence to float them.)

Hair tugging. Wrists behind backs. Marks left with lips, teeth, hands. Nothing damaging, nothing extreme, but Crowley had turned wild-eyed and fluid. He’d fucked him harder, hard enough to make the bed (or couch, or…) wobble. Or he’d gone somewhere, somewhere his body moved and surrendered into, and Aziraphale had been caught by the beauty of it.

He’d also enjoyed the reverse, a little sting or twist of his own. But it hadn’t quite the same intensity of effect for him as it did for his demon. 

Whatever it was, whyever it was, he knew it was wanted. And safe. And so very, very good. 

So he snapped his fingers and two ornate, golden clamps appeared in his palm. Intricately designed, looking like they would fit perfectly with the angel’s own day-wear, if a little… well. Too intimate to display. And also looking like they would sting most deliciously.

Crowley’s mouth fell open, his tongue quite literally salivating before he remembered to snap his teeth back together.

“If you like these… I should enjoy leaving them on you. Perhaps they would not show under the right jacket… but I would know you were wearing my jewellery.” 

“Mngkkkkkfff….kay… uh… ssshure…”

Crowley was ready to hump the rug, Aziraphale could tell. He had that covetous glow to his face, the one that said this was something truly important to him. Both the pain, and the knowledge of ownership, of… connection. A lasting sign and reminder. 

Mine. You’re mine. You belong to me. 

Every step he would take a fresh zing of sensation and an unavoidable tug back to his side. And when he released them, he knew the resulting rush of blood would make him light-headed and swoony. Ready to drop to his knees, or over the bed, or… anything Aziraphale wanted.

The power was… intoxicating. 

“Are you ready, my darling?”

“ _Yes, angel_.”

This ‘angel’ was different in tone. Reverent and worshipful. Obedient and adoring. His demon wanted this, and Aziraphale did, too.

He wrapped his lips around the bud, suckling wetly, obscenely. Moaning like it was his cock in there instead, and pulling him as erect as he could before the first clamp closed tight. 

Crowley was all but coming, from the way his hips made figure-eights on the bed. Aziraphale cupped his cheek, admiring the seductive dance. He wouldn’t let him come any time soon, but he would enjoy the wordless begging his lover employed.

“You’re so very beautiful. So handsome. So perfect.”

“Angel!”

The second clamp was duly placed, and Aziraphale’s palms tapped the handiwork. They might show a little through a shirt, but Crowley would have to find a way to hide it, if so. He quite liked the thought of his claim being obscurely visible on him. 

“I do love you, so very, very much.”

“Hrrrrrrrrrrghhhh.”

Kisses. Kisses were called for. And maybe later he would put a chain between the two clasps. He could tease it, or tug on it. Maybe there could be other, matching adornments. Maybe some could attach him to furniture, too…

The possibilities were endless, and he had all the time the world had. Quite literally.


	4. Storming the Bastille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Very much consensual dub-con roleplay. Minor bondage. 'Seduction'. Emotional BDSM. Scene develops from initial negotiation, so may cause discomfort, but both parties remain happy to continue.

Aziraphale had to hand it to him, Crowley really was good at this. The attention to detail was astonishing. How he’d managed to recreate everything with such precision - with the sole (and forgivable) exception of the less than savoury aromas of the time… he might almost believe he’d been transported back to Revolutionary France, if he hadn’t asked specifically for this.

Even the hair. Crowley had protested. (Fashions _do_ change, you know, angel.) But in return, he’d argued that it was - what did the young people say these days? ‘Retro’? An absurd contraction, but it served its purpose. There was nothing wrong with accuracy in historical re-enactment.

And besides, it had been very dashing at the time. He could remember the odd little flutter in his belly, which he’d had to ignore at the time, and the idea of re-imagining things was oh so titillating. 

Aziraphale sat, manacled and chained to the small stool, peering down at his very shiny shoes and wishing that this, particular fashion had not gone out of style. The chains were heavy, and they… well. Was it a stretch of the imagination to think they _looked_ dirty and old, but weren’t? They obviously weren’t as old as the originals, but the angel was sure the effect was an artificial patina, more than accumulated detritus. They were heavy enough to be very present, though he could also will them off without a second thought. (Like he could have the first time around. In truth.)

He was in the middle of his aesthetic assessment when a familiar, dark warmth pricked at his senses, and he turned to see: “Crowley!”

Aziraphale was so eager that he forgot he was supposed to be playing a pre-ordained part, and he couldn’t keep the grin from widening.

“You’ve done really a rather--”

“ _Ahem_.”

“Oh…” He tried to frown, unconvincingly, he felt, but it was difficult to be truly unhappy with his demon these days. At least, not when he was being so dashedly wonderful, rakish, lounging in such a way that it led the eye to… “I suppose this is your doing?”

“Might be. Might not.” One hand, loosely gesturing with a wrist. 

These older spectacles were less efficient at concealing his eyes, and even that was a thrill of sorts. To be so close to seeing, though he hardly needed them gone to witness, it was an… intimacy, to perceive with no barrier. 

“Well. Are you going to free me, or not?” He lifted his manacled wrists dramatically, making sure the attached chains tinkled pleasingly. Oddly melodious, despite the colour. Could be heavier. Maybe he’d request that, if they ever did--

“Why?”

For a moment, he forgot this was a game, and a lurch of confusion hit below his ribcage. “Because you wish to… because…”

“Demon, remember. Not aardvark. Not angel. Not anything other than…” Crowley sprawled further still, pouring like liquid bones held by sheer force of magnetism. “Demonic.”

Aziraphale’s mind went immediately to: ‘But you’re my **friend**.’ (Actually, considerably more, but it would have been the most he could have ever admitted to, and he frequently hadn’t, so--) “My replacement might be… worse.”

“I could train them.”

Sudden jealousy and anger swept into him at the idea. The very idea! That anyone - that he was replaceable! That Crowley could simply twist some other angel to his preferred mode? That he was… that…

“You couldn’t,” he argued, his voice hollow. Utterly forgetting to insist that he was, of course, ‘not trained’ and hadn’t been changed by his encounters with Crowley, and wasn’t different from the rest of the celestial host. Things he’d been so torn up about at the time. Things he’d hated, because they were dangerous, even if they were quintessentially _him_.

Strangely, the play act was… he thought it would feel lighter. Less impactful. Less… charged. Or only charged in the way he’d wanted, back then, and couldn’t acknowledge. But this was making him feel things he totally hadn’t prepared for, and the prickling in his eyes was real.

Crowley, still sprawled, cocked his head to one side. Considering. Reviewing. Perhaps he caught the rising swell of panic, because he dropped his head in one, resolute but tiny nod. “You could always… prove it to me.”

He was somewhere between then-and-now, the emotions of hundreds and thousands of years all compressed into one moment. Back and forth. Was and is. All those times. Some of which had been perfect as they were, and others which had led to regrets that still fermented, still itched in his memory.

Aziraphale didn’t have to fake the torment, or the misery. “P-prove it?”

“That you’re worth keeping around. That… I should want to protect you.”

Crowley’s lips were thin, and Aziraphale caught a thread of emotion from him, too. This _was not_ them. It wasn’t even the idealised version of them. In that, Crowley would have charged in and released him, and picked him up and carried him off and told him he’d never let him come to harm, not ever. Aziraphale would have known that Crowley was the one who really cared about him - not Heaven - or he’d… have been able to accept it. And he’d have been grateful, and touched, and safe, and loved. 

But this wasn’t about that, or it hadn’t been, when they’d talked about it. This Crowley was the false one he’d created. One who was wicked and scandalous, but not… totally cruel. Not a monster, but an anti-hero. The love interest that the Brontes would espouse, and which he’d take as a guilty pleasure.

He preferred the real one. The one who would never actually take advantage of him. Who would, instead, pretend he was barely bothered rather than admit he was utterly besotted. Who would take great pains to hide the even greater pains he went through to make life better for the angel. 

But this one… could be nice to play with, if he then got the real thing back. Aziraphale wasn’t his role, either. He wasn’t the pure, sweet thing pushed into surviving by any means. He was more the secret, later thing… the one who had wanted it all along, but needed… help.

He swallowed past the tightness, and lifted his chin defiantly. “I do not need your protection, Crowley.”

“So… those chains… don’t have angelic restraint properties? Or… Heaven isn’t keeping you from blinking your way back to whatever do-good you’re supposed to… do?”

Step-ball-change. A dance. He hadn’t needed help the first time, in complete truth. His very presence here, in the Bastille, said as much. It was… an invitation.

“That’s… it’s a little…”

“Inconvenient?”

As good a word as any. Inconvenient. How could he explain it? Even then it had seemed a little silly. He hadn’t wanted Heaven to know why he was in trouble, of course, but it had… he’d been… hoping?

“You know… it would hardly be anything, in the grand scheme of things.” Crowley’s limbs slowly unfolded, his feet reaching the ground. 

“It… wouldn’t?”

“No. It’s just the same as eating. Drinking. Sleeping.”

Back then, Aziraphale hadn’t slept. But it seemed like a moot point. He had _always_ enjoyed the other things.

“That’s hardly equivalent.”

“Why? You can’t spawn a new nation for Her, and she doesn’t want one. So… you’re not letting the team down. And you’re just… getting to understand the Humans better.”

Oh, yes. Right there. That was more like he’d wanted this play to be. Not the salacious captor, demanding. But the silver-tongued serpent, selling him seduction and making more sense than he should. Those arguments his honour had kept him from spooling out, when Aziraphale had secretly wished he _would_.

He’d wondered why. Why Crowley hadn’t tried to sweet-talk him into bed. He’d coerced him into plenty of things, including a revolution of his own, against the very powers of Heaven and Hell. But he’d never tried to talk him into bed, or into a relationship.

Considering how fiercely the demon loved him, and was loved in return… fear? Of rejection? Inviting him to work together was one thing, but… it hadn’t been just this physical release he was now extolling. It hadn’t - and wasn’t - been simply gratification.

Crowley viewed their love-making much as Aziraphale did, as precisely that. Love. It mattered. It meant something. And so… perhaps he’d needed it to be freely given. Perhaps some things shouldn’t be bought, sold, traded, or handled like they were meaningless. 

It was just another reason to love him all the more, and the sting of it went through him as he felt how not-real this truly was. Not real. 

Play. Act. He could catch the flickers of concern and assessment as Crowley tried to play the dictated role, whilst still checking at every outlet that it was working. That he wasn’t going too far, that he wasn’t crossing lines. 

This. A gift. A fiction. A story. A them that wasn’t, and that they could step back out of. Strangely, he felt more secure in their relationship because of it.

“You are a demon. I… I cannot.”

“You could… just… not fight back. You wouldn’t need to participate actively. You could say… it wasn’t what you wanted.”

“And just let you _ravish me_?”

“I said you could ‘say’. I didn’t mean you **wouldn’t** enjoy it, too.”

Even this false Crowley couldn’t just take without his consent, even if it was coerced and convinced. He could have demanded, and taken, and told Aziraphale he wanted it. (And likely, because it was Crowley, he would have.) 

“I wouldn’t,” he replied, with a wavering voice. He let the tremor in, because they both knew it was a lie.

“We could see…” His sibilant stretched, tugged, pulled over the angel’s spine like nails clawing his skin to gooseflesh. 

He couldn’t hide the whimper, especially when Crowley rose. Tight, dangerously lean frame. Perfectly neat hair. The highwayman ready to stop his carriage and demand his sparkles and shinies. 

But no. He would steal something else entirely: his heart. Aziraphale watched the swaggering walk, and the electric thrills down his spine were… oh, oh yes. Tempt me. Take me. Make me want this so much I can no longer say no. 

“I… I don’t… I don’t know how, or even if I _can_ ,” he protested, but it morphed into a bleat at a knee pushed between his thighs, grinding into his groin. Aziraphale tried not to rut and hump that knee, his hands pulling at the chains, grunting in ‘disapproval’.

His body most assuredly was reacting. He wasn’t fully hard, not yet, but he wasn’t flaccid, either. 

“Oh, you _cannnnn_ ,” the demon breathed, bending at the waist, his breathing gracing the angel’s face. “I can _ssssmell_ it on you, angel.”

Smell? His arousal? Aziraphale tried to pull back, but a sharp nose was trailing over his cheek, nudging at the edge of his hairline. Crowley’s hands were nowhere to be felt, and Aziraphale had some give in the chain, but he felt utterly pinned. 

He’d wanted this. It wouldn’t have been accepted, back then, but he’d wanted it. He’d wanted Crowley to push, but whenever he had - more subtly - he’d pushed back. Away. Of course the other hadn’t wanted to destroy the fragile cease-fire-arrangement-peace-relationship.

But now…

“I--would n-n-never… agree to… ohhhhhh!”

Fingers coiling through the silky waterfall of his cravat. Light pressure transferred to his throat, and his tongue poked out to lick at his lips. Aziraphale looked up to the face too close to his, and saw the expression there… hunger, but also… affection. It couldn’t be hidden, even by the glasses, or the persona masking him.

“Don’t fight it,” Crowley said, soft and oh-so sweetly. “I’ll make you feel good, angel. And then you can fly back to your bookshop and pretend this was just necessary.”

No. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be his. Wanted to belong to him, with him, be his. The aching memory of loneliness, of the nerves when asking for even the slightest extension to their time together… glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one saw… wishing Crowley could find some way to just vanish them both away, but knowing he couldn’t…

“Please. Don’t.”

It sounded unconvincing to his ears. Please, do. Please, please do. 

“Stop me, then.” 

Crowley’s hand twined into the lace, and pushed the fist under his jaw, nudging his head back. A glance of lips over his, making him ache and want more. Want soft, sweet lips. The taste of his tongue, the feel of his hair in his hands…

He didn’t want to stop him, and the bluff was called. The knee rolling from side to side, sending a spreading heat into his thighs and belly. His balls trapped, his cock starting to swell. It was almost like their usual foreplay, but a little more bitter-sweet.

Maybe Crowley needed the reassurance, too, because he felt his jaw cradled as the kiss turned complete and sincere, and the angel drifted on the promise of it. The memory of their first kiss, and every moment before and after, crashing into one point of pure contact.

The kiss broke, and Crowley stayed close, breathing brokenly against his cheek. “You look so… elegant… that it would be a shame to spoil your ensemble.”

Spoil it. Spoil me. Dirty me. Filthy me. Rip me, ruin me, tear me away and…

The chains suddenly went tight, tugging his wrists down and to the sides. He couldn’t lift them, couldn’t move them at all. The strain across his shoulders was glorious, and Aziraphale knew his ability to even play-refuse was fast leaving. 

“It… w-would.”

“But it’s what got you into trouble here, isn’t it? Wanting to seem better than everyone else.”

Better than… Crowley? He shook his head, but then the demon was ripping the creased ruff from his throat, and then clawing at the matching lace about his cuffs. Aziraphale gasped, both horrified and delighted, as the shreds fell to the filthy floor. 

“Crowley!”

“You have to come down to my level, for once, if you want to get out of here. Pretty little angels don’t run around selfishly stuffing their faces. You’ve been _bad_.”

Oh! Damn! Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in genuine shock as he watched Crowley pluck buttons from his justacorps coat, doing only superficial damage, but enough to make him look ragged and entirely unpresentable. _Surface-deep_. 

“Crowley!”

He felt the whir of hands and will that moved him, suddenly. Moved him so that he was face-down, bent over the wooden stool. His hands now cuffed directly to the floor, and his rump lifted over the seat at what must be the perfect height and angle. 

It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t… seemly. 

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Crowley pushing up the tails of his coat. Folding back the layers, and reaching for his britches. Aziraphale squeaked, and pulled his knees together, but it did nothing for the wicked hands that worked the fabric down to his bloomers.

Oh, those were one thing he was happier to have left behind. Even if the silky tights on his--

He heard spit. It wasn’t needed. Miracles of all kinds would be suitable, and it was more of a shame thing, wasn’t it? To embarrass him. To make him aware of… of the slender finger that circled his hole, and the feet that kicked his own apart.

“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. If you relax, you’ll enjoy it. I know you want to… I know you flirt with evil. You like the threat of it, don’t you? The thrill of being _almost_ naughty…”

Crowley didn’t penetrate him, not immediately. He kept the finger moving, stroking, gliding. It was wetter than saliva would have allowed, and he was grateful this wouldn’t be too rough. He felt the tights catch on the stool’s rough leg, and he laughed.

A ladder, upon which to climb out of the hole he had found himself in.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” Crowley sounded… hurt?

“I - no, it’s just--- CROWLEY!”

The finger moved in, and started to work him harshly. Knowingly. Knowing just where to crook, where to bend. Where to rub, to flex, to pull the gasps and moans from his lips. His demon knew him so very well, and he always went to so much effort to make sure he enjoyed this. His dick was now entirely with the program, and he whimpered, meeting the thrusts with little ruts of his own.

“You want this. You want me. You just won’t admit it… even to yourself.”

“Y-yes! Yes! I do! I do! I did… I always did!” It cracked inside him, everything folding and confused and the ache in his chest that was guilt and shame for how he’d rejected him so long. Rejected him, then begged him to re-live his very own Hell of being rejected… how cruel was he?

Two hands. On his hips. A sudden slam of his demon into him, with no more preamble. “You want me,” he insisted, with less conviction than he should.

“YES!” Aziraphale insisted, pulling at the cuffs, needing to feel the way he was held in place. “I do! I did! Crowley! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

An elbow around his throat, the demon lying across his spine, sacrificing the power of his other position for the closeness of this. Face in his throat, the thrusts shallow but harsh. “Should have. Made you. Admit it. Should… should have…”

“I knew, I knew… I wasn’t ready, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m ready now, love, I’m ready, I’m yours.” He confessed, the words rushing out unplanned, his heart hurting and his calves cramping in the awkward coupling. 

“Wanted…. Wanted…”

“Yes, yes, you have me now… always, I swear, I - oh, Crowley, I love you! I love you! Forgive me!”

It shouldn’t - needn’t - end so rapidly, but the emotional pressure on them both meant Crowley’s frantic thrusts had him so close to the edge that Aziraphale knew he’d only last if he pulled back. And he didn’t want that. Instead, he reached out with what of him wasn’t this body, with the part of him that only others of their kind could see. He had no words for what they were doing as he touched the demon without touch, and felt the landslide of answering love. Mad, feverish, angry and afraid.

Afraid. His demon. No…

Aziraphale tried to wrap his sense of self around him, murmuring words and sounds of adoration and commitment as he encouraged Crowley over the final hurdle. A grunt, and he felt the wet, pulsing release of his demon’s climax push at his insides. Felt his body yield to accept it, and cried in his own, terrified love.

Terrified, because how could it ever be enough? What he said, what he did? How could it ever come close to the passion inside of him? 

He felt the tears on the back of his neck, and his own on his cheeks. I love you. I love you. I’m sorry. I’m yours, now. I’m yours. 

An awkward hand reached around, pushing things aside to take his cock in fist. It almost felt wrong to expect his own release, when he’d denied Crowley for so very long, but he was too greedy to object. 

Sharp. Sweet. Rough. 

Rough. Anything they could do would be rough. A rough approximation of an emotion that bodies couldn’t fully explain. He spilled past the rapid tugs, dropping until all that held him up was the stool under his juddering belly.

An uncomfortable position, but he had his demon around him, and that mattered more. 

“Mmmmn. S’okay?” Crowley asked, after a long pause.

“Oh, v-very much so. Was…? Did you?”

“Mmmm.” He nuzzled at his neck, and Aziraphale smiled at the sound of satisfaction he could hear. “Need a few.”

“We have… eternity, my dear.”

“Yeah. But I figured you’d want crêpes.” 

Really. Of all the things to make him burst out into tears… he sobbed as his wrists were freed, and Crowley took him to a softer couch that had so miraculously appeared. That was what did it, and he clutched at the demon’s shirt.

“You must think me awfu-awfully s-silly right now,” he sniffled, as he felt arms around him, and kisses in his hair.

“Nah. Knew you were like this.”

He choked on a little laugh.

“S’why I love you, so shut up. And… angel?”

“Y-yes?”

“...I think… I needed that, too.”

Aziraphale felt something snap free inside. “I’m glad, then,” he whispered, as they curled in tighter. “I do love you so very terribly.”

“I know, angel. I always did.”


	5. Ma'am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Female-presenting Aziraphale. Femdomme. OTK spanking. Pegging.

Crowley always seemed to enjoy him(her? their?)self when inhabiting a more female form. Aziraphale had long admired the demon’s unflappable ease with which bodily parts and clothing could be shrugged off, like a snake shedding an old skin. 

He had - until now - always stayed with the default interpretation that Humanity had initially put upon him. Adam had been the first, and Aziraphale had really a fifty-fifty choice by the time of Eve. The coin had landed one way, and he’d kept to it.

But he had… wondered. Of course he had. He admired the women he saw, even more so when their accomplishments were frequently ‘despite’ their circumstances, not assisted by them. And really, they were all just people. It went from men wearing skirts, to women, to women in trousers, to… well, he had no idea what the current norm was, but he was sure Crowley would tell him in excruciating detail.

They were just people, but as people they’d wrapped their gender up in bows, or bows and arrows. Colours that bounced this way then that. He’d been interpreted as a male homosexual for a long time, and he was sure it wasn’t just his… ah… paramour to be. He liked the finery. The dainty things. The pretty. 

And, according to Humanity, liking those was the demesne of those attracted to men: women of many varieties, and gay males. 

Well, it wasn’t really true. He wasn’t homosexual. He was Crowley-sexual. And sometimes Crowley was male, and sometimes Crowley was female. And all times, Crowley was neither, because Crowley was an occult being and Aziraphale was an ethereal one. Which meant he was either heterosexual in liking someone from the ‘other’ side, or homosexual in liking a fellow angel-born creature. And none of it really mattered.

Aziraphale liked soft colours. And fine fabrics. And lace. And the customs (most of them) of bygone eras. 

And Aziraphale liked - no - **loved** Crowley. And Crowley enjoyed being female. So why shouldn’t he?

Although he - she - was going to have to work out what to think internally when referring to - er - selfhood. The angel wondered if Crowley had any tricks, or - well - did he even internally vocalise and hear speech like-- that was a topic for another day.

The first time had to be a surprise. Aziraphale was so bad at keeping them, now they were officially a couple, and he (because when it was a surprise he had been a he) had nearly blurted out in happiness several times. 

But he’d managed to hold back, and the day came when - she - yes, now ‘she’ - was ready.

The changes were, she thought, quite subtle and elegant. A slight flare around the waist, and a little more ample in the buttocks and hips. Not quite an hourglass, but definitely not an obelisk of a sundial. She didn’t change the hair, as she thought it looked quite racy and short hair was very modern for females (unless it had changed again). 

The breasts were certainly interesting. She had always enjoyed the small swells that Crowley would sport, and playing with them had elicited more of a reaction than the male nipples. They bounced when she jiggled on the spot, and were surprisingly tender, but not in an unpleasant way. The sex between her legs was, in some ways, better. It was easier to sit and did not need as much adjusting, which was a design flaw in the other form. Not that she would deign to criticise Her, but perhaps the feedback from the first model had led to slight comfort improvements? 

It was there, nestled away, hidden like a precious secret. Between closed thighs, a warm, kindling thing. Slightly wet, but not in any way unpleasant. She closed her legs tight, and clenched and squirmed some more, getting used to the feelings. Yes. Good. Nice.

She hoped Crowley would still approve. There was no reason not to, but it was still… a little unnerving. How would it feel to be rejected? Or to find that Crowley was pretending? No. No, her demon wouldn’t. Would he?

The bright blue silky panties she pulled on were rather revealing. It was the point, but it was still a thrill to see so much skin still on display. Only the triangular thatch of curls were really obscured, and she twisted to look at her rear in the mirror.

Her thighs were covered in sheer, seam-lined stockings that clipped to the basque that hugged her torso. A slight dip to show her cleavage, but most was cocooned in the tight corsetry. It gave her more of a waistline than would show without aid, and whilst it didn’t exactly restrict her breathing, it made her very aware of it. 

The heels were not stiletto. She could have opted for them, but they were less comfortable and also she didn’t want to look too… racy on her first outing. Her face she made up very simply, and then she waited. Bundled in a big, false-fur coat, hiding giggles of excitement into the ruff.

When Crowley finally arrived, Aziraphale was all but climbing the walls in anticipation. Her crossed legs bounced at the toes, and she blushed above the fluff, from under lengthened lashes and over rosy cheeks.

“Welcome home, my love.”

“A warm welcome, it seems… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“They pleasure will be all mine,” she insisted, rising to show off her calves in the stretch. The coat remained swaddled around her, concealing the rest.

“Oh? None left for me?”

“Maybe when I’m done, darling.” She tilted her head, coquettishly, and let her lips part just slightly. “Are you in the mood to serve me?”

Crowley looked more amused than anything else, but he dropped to one knee and folded his hands over it. “My liege, I am--”

“Your _lady_ ,” she corrected, and let the coat fall dramatically. It nearly got caught on the basque, but a little shuffle retained her dignity. And she was gratified by the little hiss of breath.

It took a lot to impress or startle Crowley, who normally tried to be so cool as to make the Arctic look Saharan. Aziraphale stepped out of the fallen coat, and turned slowly to show her whole form. The tiny purr-growl she could hear made her feel bolder still, an odd little flutter in her chest and a thrill of muscular contraction somewhere she hadn’t had before. 

“Yes… _Ma’am_ ,” was the eventual husked response. Crowley was definitely eager, already leaning subtly, subconsciously forwards. 

Definitely not going to reject her, then. Good. A weight lifted off her chest, and she strode closer, reaching down to stroke and pet Crowley’s lovely hair. “If you are to serve me, you should do so in the correct attire. Remove your clothes, and bring the red toy box, my dear.”

“Yes, S-- Ma’am.” Crowley flushed pink. “I’m sorry, it’s--”

“I will understand accidental slips. If they continue to happen, you may be punished, but only to assist in your memory. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Do… may I ask what you… like? To be called?”

She pondered, lowering herself to the cushion-strewn couch. “Mistress may do… Ma’am is acceptable. ‘Lady’ will also work. As long as your tone is suitable, I will accept all of those.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

She watched as the demon rose, and stretched himself in the process. He was already shifting to behave, his shoulders and spine making those subtle alterations that said he was feeling submissive. 

His hands moved quickly, keenly, and she wondered how they would feel on her skin today. If she let him, that was. His jeans showed the interest he was in, before he peeled them off and placed them carefully to one side. Before long, he was naked as the day he was created, and a glint of white teeth showed in his smile.

“Do I please you, my Lady?”

“Now, pet, did I say you could speak to me without reason?” 

That caught him unawares, as he’d clearly thought this was not as strict as it was. Now he did go red, a mix of anger and embarrassment. Crowley was feeling ready to serve, yes, but to be fully obsequious? He wasn’t quite there, not yet.

“Please, forgive me.”

“Speak when you are spoken to, or require my response. Ask permission before those questions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” It was a little less fluid, a little more brittle. Not out of willful disobedience, but discomfort. 

They were not always so formal and dedicated to protocol, but today? Today Aziraphale wanted to have complete control. It might take a little to ease him down, but she made sure she caught his eyes and held them until she was confident he was prepared for that, too. 

“May… may I speak, Ma’am?”

“You may.”

“I will… endeavour to serve you as you deserve, my Lady. Please… if I err…”

“I will assist you to better serve me, yes.” Good. He wanted to be punished to some degree. That meant this would most assuredly work. Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled in happiness, before she remembered to stay In Control. “Now, fetch the box as I told you to.”

Crowley nodded, and darted off. She watched his lovely arse go, and was struck by how very much she liked that part of him. 

When he came back, she held her hands out for the box, and waited for him to kneel again. First she brought out the silver collar, the first one she’d acquired for him. It was slender, but secure, and the worn leather circled her demon’s throat like a fist would. He swallowed against it, his head tilted back to offer her everything. His closed eyes tracked left and right, and she requested each wrist in turn.

Matching cuffs, which she then clipped together behind his back. In order to do so, she had to lean and brush her chest against him, and was gratified by the way it made him shiver, and the wide, pooling and puddling sensations in her own torso.

Crowley didn’t open his eyes, swaying a little, sinking lower by the minute. 

She sat back, and admired. He was trying very hard to be good for her, and she decided she should explore her own reactions. It had been challenging to keep her hands off herself before, but now would be ideal. Especially if he wasn’t looking, just listening.

Aziraphale ran a hand over her restricted breasts, liking how pert the costume made them. They were larger than Crowley’s tended to be, but that suited her frame. She ran her fingers over her chest, her belly, and down to her groin. The silky fabric caught on the hair below, just a little, and felt damp and warm. She bent her fingers a little, then moaned at the delicious sensation. More diffuse? No. Yes. Still intense in one place, but there were so many other spots that flushed and grew plump with arousal.

Crowley was struggling to stay still, now. The movement of his eyelids said he very much wanted to lift them, and his lips quirked into a frustrated bow. She wanted to pluck them with one finger, but…

“Do you like my shoes, my precious pet?”

“S-shoes?” One eye did peek open, look up, then both looked down. “Y-yes. Ma’am.”

“Wouldn’t you like to kiss them?”

Quite why she thought it would be good, she didn’t know. Possibly the fact that the feet, the lowest part, would be… degrading? Even in such fabulous wear. And also possibly because she wanted to see just how far--

Crowley’s knees splayed, and his back tippled as he sought to balance with his hands bound. He lowered his face to nuzzle at the lacing, and place feather-soft kisses to the leather. 

Not one hesitation. It made her feel even more giddy, and she lifted her leg very slowly, encouraging him with little words of praise as he kissed her sheer-spun ankles and calves. Higher, and higher, until he was almost where she wanted him, but… she grabbed under his jaw, and tutted. 

“Sssorry, S-- Ma’am,” he rumbled, looking a little disappointed. 

He hadn’t been given permission to talk, but it was an apology, so she decided it was excusable enough to avoid punishment. “You weren’t asked to, and you weren’t invited to speak.”

His jaw moved at first to explain, complain, or agree… before he realised he was doing it again and snapped his teeth audibly together.

Maybe she should punish him.

“It seems you do need some correction, doesn’t it?”

“...if you believe so, my Lady, then I do.”

It was that fine line between obedience and… toeing of the line. Pushing beyond. Technically correct, but also potentially insubordinate. Aziraphale lifted with her hand, but she didn’t have to take his weight as he scrambled and struggled to not give her the burden. Up, and up, until he was on his feet, but bent over into her palm.

“Bend over my knee.”

This was terribly naughty. Somehow, the old fashioned… well, depravity of this was more intense than some of their more intricate play. She was reminded of Victorian postcards, of whispered suggestions, of Madames and all the things that went along with it. 

Crowley went where he was told, his bare cock wedging sideways over her almost-bare upper thighs. 

“Lift your hands.”

They were still tied, so when he did, he stretched his shoulders most beautifully. He was so very flexible, and so very eager. The position would likely hurt before long, and she tensed and flexed her sex in her own enjoyment. 

The paddle in the box was normally used in different positions, but this was… more intimate, somehow. She lifted it up, then laid a brisk pattern of three to each cheek, to warm his skin and prepare him.

“Now. How naughty do you think you’ve been?”

Crowley tensed, and shrunk a little. “Ma’am?”

“For your punishment.”

She knew he wouldn’t want to make any decisions now. Knew that his mind would race between saying too little, risking reprisal and higher figures; and saying too many and agreeing to more blows than Aziraphale had initially intended.

When he didn’t reply, she stroked the flat blade of the toy across his shoulders. “I asked you a question, my dear.”

“I - I’m - Mas--- _Mistress_ , please… I don’t… I c-can’t…”

One firm smack to a buttock, and she relished the cry in response. It was hurt, but more emotionally hurt than physical. And that was the point, after all. To ease a pain that went deeper than the muscles on bones. 

“Then I shall have to punish you until my arm is tired,” she insisted, and started a steady rhythm that wandered from left to right.

In truth, she had no intention of going that long, but she wanted him to lose all sense of time and resistance. All sense of anything but her, and where they touched. She started slow, but moderately firm, then worked up to an inaudible tempo until he was bouncing from the pressure. Thwack, thwack… until his toes clawed at the ground, and she eased off enough to draw him over the plateau. On, and on, increasing and increasing until the hisses and whimpers became only moans and sighs. The cock wasn’t being rubbed into her, but she could feel the swell of it. The demon’s shoulders shook with the effort of obeying, and then she placed the paddle down and replaced it with her palm.

Smack. Smack. SMACK. 

Crowley howled out a ‘thank you, thank you’, and she knew he was there.

Her hand stayed on the next hit, and her finger pushed to seek his hole. It was incredibly gratifying to feel him splay wider, to try to meet her digit as she penetrated him with just the tip. 

Hmm.

It was an idea. Much as the idea of vaginal intercourse from this perspective interested her, how much more emasculating (if Crowley could even feel that), to be penetrated by a penis-less partner? 

She opened the lube they liked (when they decided it was better than ‘just making it happen’), and started to work two fingers into him, relishing the sounds that bubbled from his lips.

“You’ve been good for me, haven’t you? So good for me.”

“Yesss, Mistressss.”

“But I’m not ready to let you fuck me. You will need to earn that right.”

Only a small slump. Not because he didn’t want to fuck her, but because he accepted the judgement call. “Yes, Mistress.”

“First, I will fuck you. And after, you will lick me clean. If you satisfy me sufficiently, I may consider it on a future date.”

His ass clenched in anticipation, working her fingers deeper, and she realised he was very, very in favour. 

“Get up.”

Crowley waddled, bow-legged with trying to not fall, and the sting in his ass. She opened up the box again, and retrieved something they normally used in other ways.

It would do for this, too. 

She held out the tip of the double-ended toy, and waited for him to suck it. He did, with gusto, making her walls tighten in sympathy memories. Those lips and tongue were very, very good at what they did. 

When she was satisfied, she turned it and used her other hand to widen her pussy lips. He was watching, and his tongue flicked out hungrily as she ran the blunt tip all around, before nudging it at her own hole. 

It was… the first time. And as eager as she was, the angle was difficult and she had only done this - hah - as the male before. It was a little tight as she prodded and wasn’t quite sure, but she wasn’t about to ask for help. She flicked a wrist impatiently, and her side started to vibrate.

That was what it took, and a curve of her spine, and the first inch slid in. 

It was… different. Different to taking the same toy anally, in that instead of a single, narrow point of erogenous sensation, this was… everything around the hole was good, too. It was getting slicker by the moment, and she moaned as she felt how any movement made the feelings shift and soar.

Crowley was watching. Crowley was watching her pleasure herself, and take her own virginity. (If it was still considered that, when you’d been carnal in oh so many other ways, in another body.) 

“Do you like what you see?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Do you wish you could fuck me instead?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She tossed her head, and then started to thrust the toy deeper. It made her legs twitch, and her fingers and toes curl, and she loved how it felt to be so desired. Deeper, until it felt like it would go no further. She let it sit, buzzing.

“Climb on. I want you to ride me. I want to see you work for your release.”

It would be hard for him, she knew, but that was the point. His eager limbs moved to mount her lap, and then he was struggling to find the end with his ass. He whined in his throat, and turned begging eyes to her.

She refused to move, waiting for it.

“M-may… I… please?”

“What is it?”

“I… I can’t… please… please help me?”

He hated to ask for help. Hated it. And she could see the angry frustration he was fighting back, and the fear. But she loved him, and she wouldn’t see him suffer for long. 

“Of course, my boy.”

One hand on the toy, one on his hip, and she guided him down. And down. And… yes. Then he was sitting on her thighs, the toy pushed entirely between them. He wobbled and his belly pulled in as he accommodated the stretch, then he was moving again.

Crowley bounced on her fake dick like it was the real thing, but the longing in his eyes said he knew it wasn’t. His balls jostled, his dick describing a metronome of their own making, and all the while the buzz sent ripples of bliss through her. 

It really was something. Truly.

“So good for me, won’t you be? So good. You’d do anything I asked, wouldn’t you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he cooed, his voice sounding increasingly strained. Increasingly on the edge of mania. 

“Will you come for me? Like this?”

He must be close, because he was leaking and his breathing was shot to hell. She heard the cuffs clank where he pulled, and she wrapped her palm around his length. Her nails were perfectly painted, a harlot-red, and it was enough to have the demon yowling his heart out.

One jerk. Two. Three. He came with a grind down so hard into her lap that she thought the toy was pushed another inch deeper, and she had to curve her back and tilt her hips to even handle the stimulation. She pushed back against it, and carried on beating until she was sure he was spent.

“Good boy.”

Crowley was panting. His face a picture of blissed out abandonment. She wiped the sticky mess over his mouth, and felt his tongue lap the rest off. 

“Now. Kneel before me. Use your mouth. And don’t stop even if I tell you to.”

Crowley practically fell off her, swaying on his knees, his face moving to the place she wanted it most.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“...should I - remove… first?”

Oh. Well it made sense. “Pull it out with your teeth. And then kiss me better for fucking you.”

“ _Yes, my Lady_ ,” he cooed, and pushed his used end of the toy into his mouth. Such a good mouth. Such a good tongue. 

She throbbed and hummed right there, in anticipation. 

She was enjoying this. It would have to become a regular occurence, it seemed. As the first swipe graced her swollen clit, she gripped the armrest and closed her eyes to the stars. 

Maybe she would let his hands go, if he was behaving so well. With the toy gone, she felt terribly hollow. Hollow in a ‘this place is empty and must be full’ way. But first she had to be able to handle just that tongue, and handle it she most assuredly would.


	6. Il Maledetto Immobile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Predicament bondage

Really, this was almost sinful to do, like wrapping a lion in the skin of its brother, or… knitting a sweater for a lamb. Perhaps it was closer to the latter, because the rich, red silk ropes only resembled the snake they bound up, and weren’t the result of slaughter.

Crowley looked like the snake he was, even when fully ‘Human’. All mobile, wending limbs and sideways approach and indolent appearance which covered a hunter ready to strike. 

The demon’s wrists were encircled by figure-eights, or infinities, or ouroboros that pushed the heels of his palms together. His long digits arched back, as if cupping something precious, touching again at the tips. The hands would flex and the tendons and sinews across the back would rope-cord on their own, triggered by flashes of response somewhere too deep to see. The wrists were held above his head, his shoulders stretched to accept it, as the loop went up to the pulley-hook in the ceiling. The other end was attached to something small and sturdy: a curved hook of metal that slipped between his buttocks and pushed to nuzzle just inside of his hole. 

That hook had been slipped inside with the merest amount of lubrication, and it pulled his ass back and up, threatening to dig in harder if he tried to lower his hands from their current imploring pose.

He had to be careful, breathing. He had to maintain a steady, shallow flow. Each time his ribcage expanded, the hook plucked ever deeper into his tender entrance, and he exhaled with more relief than requirement. 

Aziraphale admired it, this… frozen motion. As frozen as it could be, with someone as agitated and restless as Crowley. The calm was only temporary, and the memory of movement was there in every line of tension between the ropes.

Around his neck was a simple, leather collar, finished with an O-ring. Down from there, diamonds spread out over his front and back. Criss-crossing under his chest, over his hips. Corded jewels of taut flesh, sinking and surging. The knots were tight enough that they’d leave marks for hours when removed. Whorls upon whorls pressed into his skin, welts of pink pain and white deprivation. He loved to trace those with his lips, when they were finished. Loved to kiss it better, causing more sting and hiss on the way. 

His thighs were locked apart, rope manacling them to the bar that spread them, pulled to extremis. It made his stance precarious, hence the line of tension across his brow as he tried not to move too much. Not to topple, to stretch, to fight, or to fall. 

Up those bunched calves and thighs, to the thinner rope. A knot behind the balls, a circle around them. Pressing on his prostate, and closing off any route to release. It lay flush to his belly, only moving when the angel tugged the leash from the plug at the tip. 

Beautiful. Pleasure stoppered away, building like the bubbles below a corked bottle of champagne. Sweet liquid eager to gush out, once the golden clasp was released.

But not yet.

Not yet.

First, Aziraphale would trace a feather (his own) all over the exposed skin.

He would whisper his promises in those pricked-sharp ears.

He would draw his own red letters with his nails.

He would fondle and caress until his demon cried from the effort not to move, not to beg.

Aziraphale grinned. He had Crowley right where he wanted him, entirely at his mercy.

Too bad it wasn’t an angelic virtue, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Exhibitionism, semi-public sex. God as voyeur?

Angels and demons did not need the light of any planetary body - or artificial source - to see. But still, it was a custom they kept to live by the circadian, let-there-be-light life that their neighbouring Humans did. 

You didn’t really take a picnic in the dark, in St James’ park.

(Not that it was truly dark, in the middle of the Big Smoke. These days, the hum of combustion and congestion, mixed with the sodium and neon words, or the blinking boxes streaming pictures of long ago, or far away, or both…)

But it still wasn’t the ‘done’ thing. If you were hanging around a public park at this late of an hour, you were not the type to lie down a nice blanket and open a hamper. Your alcohol was covered by paper, not simply glass and glossy labels. 

Convention had never truly stopped either of them from pursuing what they wanted. Delayed it, perhaps, but never stopped it. So if they wanted to eat triangular sandwiches and scotch eggs, if they wanted to drink old wines out of new glasses, and lie facing the sky and the stars that most others couldn’t see? Well. They would.

Crowley’s jacket had - for once - been removed. Bundled up under his head, beneath his bent arms. The angel’s own head nuzzled itself over his breastbone, the warmth of his body plastered against his flank. 

The food had been good. The company better. Crowley was feeling pleasantly buzzed, and he tried to identify the constellations from the mild haze in his head.

“What are you thinking, my love?” Aziraphale asked, his shoe tracing along the inner ball of Crowley’s ankle.

“Mmm. Nothing much.”

“Oh, come now.”

Fine. He couldn’t ever hide from him, not now. “I was just… looking at the stars.”

“What do you see?”

Flaming balls of gas, further back in time than time existed. Dots on a domed ceiling, hung by some Renaissance artist. Pointillist pictures of heroes and animals. Wishes. Dreams. Everything in between.

“...history.”

“Oh?”

Sharp incisors pushed into his lower lip. He hadn’t talked much about… “I made… some.”

“...stars?”

“Yeah.” Before.

They didn’t talk about Before. They both knew Aziraphale had been a Principality. A Guardian. His sword had been more than a message, it had been a true weapon. 

Crowley, on the other hand… he’d been out in the skies. Making. Thinking. Creating, like the Creator, just a little less divinely inspired.

Balls of fire. Dreams. Wishes. 

“...which?”

He was a little uncomfortable, but… he waved an arm, knowing the angel would follow the path. The edge of the galaxy, side-on. Further galaxies. Nebulae. Dancing binary concoctions. Ravenous, collapsed failures. Desperately hawing light from anything nearby.

The comparison didn’t go unnoticed. He pulled the angel tighter.

“Kiss me, here,” Aziraphale whispered. “Underneath them all.”

“I regularly kiss you under the stars,” he replied, but pushed a broken smile into his hair. 

“No. _Really_ kiss me. So they watch.”

“Stars aren’t--” Crowley frowned. “Angel, what’s this about?”

He could move, when he wanted to. Springing up and over, hands around Crowley’s wrists, his weight holding him pinned down. “I want Her to see.”

Her. God. No… Crowley struggled, the picnic blanket pulling under a heel. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I mean it.” Pink, furious cheeks. “I - I know She can see _anyway_.”

And now Crowley was going to feel self-conscious all over again, every time they--

“But I want… I need… it wasn’t right, and--”

Crowley ached again, and if any of those bastards decided to imitate Icarus right now in pathetic fallacy, he’d punch them back into orbit himself. “Angel. No regrets. Not… not when I get you.”

He didn’t want to touch on that topic. It was an endless tangle of ‘She moves in mysterious ways’ and ‘it’s all Ineffable’ and ‘you’ll understand when you’re older’ and whatever. But Aziraphale, Aziraphale he understood. Not in terms of angel and demon. Not even in terms of good and bad.

Aziraphale was Aziraphale. All of his qualities and all of his quirks and bugger all the rest. (Metaphorically. Actually, literally only bugger this, particular one.)

“I _need_ to.” Unholy - or perhaps actually holy - fire blazed in those blue eyes. Stars of a wholly different kind. It was a request, and not a demand, because he didn’t move any more. Just entreated with his eyes for something Crowley wasn’t sure he could fully give.

He didn’t want Her to see. Even if She could see at any point in time, and probably could before it happened, or - well - he’d never know for sure, would he? But doing it while remembering Her, remembering his time in the skies… knowing that Aziraphale was staking his claim and protest in one…

It was different.

But Aziraphale wanted it. And he would continue to want it. Want this. This message. This… revenge? Rectification? Reunion? A public declaration of his rebellion in loving the unloved. 

She was either in favour, or She never cared at all. Crowley didn’t know which was worse.

But Aziraphale… he _did_ care. Cared so much his whole face was the moon. Bright, battered, and old. The tides of his blood surged in his wake. The faces of his plants turned to seek him out. 

Angel. Aziraphale.

Crowley nodded, unable to talk past the chalk and sulphur on his tongue.

Aziraphale left his hands where he’d pushed them, and Crowley didn’t move until fingers pushed his sleeves to his wrists. Lift. Tug. Loose.

His chest gloaming in the millions of little points of light, but mostly for Aziraphale himself.

Warm kisses over night-cold flesh. Heat that was small mercies as the breeze skittered from the pond between the bushes and pulled his hair erect. 

Someone could see. Any moment now, someone could see. Crowley would wait until he was sure the angel wouldn’t react, then send them away… but the thought that Aziraphale would **want** witnesses - God, and anyone else - to watch him stake his claim… that Aziraphale would _enjoy_ others seeing their love written into bent grass and heel-drummed earth… he whimpered in vain as fingers slipped metal from leather, and his legs were moved into place.

Bare. Naked, as the shoes were cast neatly aside. Nothing to stand between him and the canopy of stars but the angel’s wide, soft wings. He could see them over one shoulder, even as he felt the first finger probe and push. A small amount of privacy, though anyone would know from the way they moved, what went on below.

Inside, and he was unable to hold back. His fingers sunk into glowing white pinions, and his ankles crossed above his angel’s ass. He hid his face in the crook of his neck, his spine sine-waving until he knew it was time.

Crowley bit his lip until he could see stars behind his closed lids, and felt the rut of the joining all the way up his spine to his skull. Flesh to flesh, heart to heart. If he had one. Or whatever it is their kind had been given, that allowed some to feel, and others to feel nothing but hate. 

Aziraphale made love like he did everything else: focussed on the pleasure of it, and seeing the best. Seeing the connection, the promise, the hope, the affection. Crowley doubted the angel was capable of this without the love behind it, doubted he’d even be able to get hard without a good thought in his mind. He felt special every time they did this, every time they combined. Bathed in the waves of deep affection and aching from a sense of loss and then the promise of being refound. Remade. Renewed.

(It was just fucking, he would tell himself, as hands caressed his face and wings stroked his sides. It was sensual and it was base and coarse and it wasn’t anything deeper than scratching an itch or slaking a thirst. It wasn’t. It **wasn’t**.) 

Anyone could see him, prostrate and enveloped. Clutching at his lover, red-faced and writhing. One breath away from begging. See how he needed this, needed… him. See how he surrendered to the love, at least for a little while.

See that one being thought him worthy. Even if that being wasn’t himself.

A rake of something deeper than the body touched parts that hated how much he needed them. Nothing the Human tongue would ever know how to describe, but a sense of… ‘self’ from the angel that… that arced like solar explosions, or flying head-first through the rocks of a planet’s vast rings. He was battered by the intensity, lost on the eddies, and he knew no distinction or sense of self until the pleasure peaked in his lover and made him arch and buck and howl like he wasn’t a few steps away from the dog-walkers, or the night-shift, or the homeless, or the insomniacs. Like he wasn’t hiding in plain sight, a hop skip and jump away from the rest of the world.

Crowley sought refuge in the wings, his body twitching from the explosions. His self remembering. Knowing. Known. 

“You belong to me,” Aziraphale whispered, gruff with emotion. 

“Yes, angel.”

“If She has a problem with that…”

Mercifully, the earth did not swallow them up. Nor did any stars fall. The air was ripe with nocturnal insects, the hoot of a far-off owl, and the Humans who never went to sleep. 

“Yes, angel.” He kissed his cheek, and something further broke. Each time, he felt it. Felt a crack along a fault-line. 

One day there’d be nothing left. He just didn’t know what was really underneath it all. He hoped it glowed like stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment with any kinks you might want on the list... I'm always down to write more chapters ;)
> 
> My no-gos are: scat, watersports, underage, drastic mutilation, actual non-con. I'm open-minded about nearly anything else. 
> 
> Gender, position, dynamic, role-play, consensual non-con, delay and denial, SSC/RACK violence are all negotiable. Anon requests are also fine if you're shy. :) And don't worry if you think it's too kinky/not kinky enough. Just ask. I only bite the willing.


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